Silverhelm: A Tale of Two Enemies

Sauron's Servants Need to Brush Their Teeth

Two days later, an army of seven thousand marched from Minas Tirith. Each division bore the standard of the fief it represented- Dol Amroth, Lossarnach, Ringlo, Morthrond, Anfalas, Lamedon, Ethir, Pinrath Gelin, and the realm of Rohan, all were represented in the banners flying in the wind. They had come to aid Minas Tirith when she was under siege, and now they were riding off to fight in the battle to end all battles. Yes, I know that's dramatic, but it was true.

At the head rode the company of the Minas Tirith, with the White Tree flapping above. I rode at the head, as the command of this company was given to me.

Aragorn, Eomer, Gandalf, and Prince Imrahil rode at the front of the foremost company, which consisted of the thirty or so Dunedain and the King's Guard of Minas Tirith. Pippin rode with Gandalf; Merry and Eowyn, though they had wanted to come, had been left behind.

Daelen's hooves struck a rock, jostling my wound. I winced and held one hand against my stomach in response to the flaring pain. If I had confided how much the injury had actually hurt me, I would never have been allowed to come, however, I knew that I would be able to fight by the time we got there. From the ranks of the mounted Guard, Legolas cast me a worried look. I winked back. His frown deepened.

**********

Seven days later, we reached the Black Gate. It towered above us, set between two mountains, a wall of iron spikes. The company halted, and a small group of us rode forward - Aragorn, who wore the armor of the King; Eomer, Prince Imrahil, Legolas with Gimli, Gandalf with Pippin, and myself. I was wearing the livery of the King's Men, with my Lorien cloak over it. The seven day's ride had not done much for my stomach, but at least I could swing a sword without fainting. The eight of us rode up to the Black Gate, then halted.

"Let the Lord of the Black Gate come forth!" Aragorn called, addressing the closed gate. We had come this far without opposition, but my senses prickled. We were knowingly walking into a trap. "Let justice be done upon him!" I heard a subtle creaking. The Gate opened, just a crack. From inside, a solitary figure on horseback approached.

Not Sauron himself, of course. Thankfully, Sauron had not yet taken physical form. This was but one of his servants. The Mouth of Sauron, they called him. It was rumored that he was a Black Numernorean.

"My master Sauron bids thee welcome," he said as he neared, sneering at Aragorn. I saw that his horse was as black as Daelen, though it wore heavy armor. The emissary, too, wore armor that covered all his body but his mouth. A tattered black cloak drifted in the hot wind. The mouth was full of rotting teeth. I nearly gagged as my female side won over.  Just because you're evil doesn't mean that you can't keep your teeth in good condition!

"Are there any in this rout that is fit to treat with me?" I was very sorely tempted to whip out Nahtar and his head off for such insolence. This was the almost-king of Gondor and the King of Rohan standing before him, for the sake of all that is sacred. One glance at Legolas told me that he was thinking the exactly same thing. Aragorn showed no emotion but apparent disgust.

Anyways, cutting off the emissary's head would not be a good idea. This was a parley of sorts, anyways. We were not pirates, the rules of parley were more than just guidelines. "Or indeed with any wit to understand me? Not you, at least!" he jeered at Aragorn. "It needs more to make a king than a piece of Elvish glass, or a rabble such as this."

Aragorn still said nothing, nor did he make to draw Anduril. But he held the emissary's gaze (or at least it looked so, his eyes were shielded), and after a few moments, the messenger drew back, daunted.

"I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!" he cried quickly. What a coward.

"Where such laws hold," I snapped. "It is also the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence. No one has threatened you, servant of evil. You have nothing to fear from us until said bargaining is done. And unless your master, faithless and accursed, comes to his better senses, which I find highly unlikely, then I will not be the only one to hold a blade to your neck." Aragorn sternly glanced at me, ordering me to be silent, then fixed his eyes on the Numenorean again.